


You Calling Me Gay?

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Porn, stripperlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 07:19:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3438455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a seventeen year old stripper. Greg is nineteen and in the process of becoming a cop. Greg insists he's not gay even though he takes a stripper home after a lap dance gets out of control. </p><p>Will Greg be able to admit he is attracted to Sherlock or will he break Sherlock's heart over and over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Calling Me Gay?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



Greg walked through the door with his two best mates and then turned around and walked out. Mark ran after him and turned him around forcefully.

"Come on, Lestrade! It's the weekend, it's time for some fun!" he said as he pushed Greg through the entrance.

"It's a gay bar, Mark," Greg protested weakly.

"So just look," Mark said, sitting him down at a table in a dark corner and sticking three fingers up at the barkeep.

Greg grumbled and sank back into the seat as a tall man walked up and handed him a shot. He downed it and then another and tried not to look too interested. Because he wasn't. He wasn't interested in the least. This was all Mark and Stilen's thing. He wasn't gay. Lord knows he wouldn't have survived his home life of he had been.

A half hour in and Greg was getting pretty drunk and losing his resolve. Said resolve was bloody gone when the most gorgeous thing he'd ever seen approached. He was tall and thin and looked as if he could break in half at any rough touch. He slinked over in nothing but a pair of tight metallic pants and a copious amount of glitter. 

"Hey there, honey. Fancy a lap dance?" the boy asked, and no, Greg was not fooled into thinking he was anymore than a boy, a boy playing at being a man.

"You saying I'm gay?" Greg asked, voice a bit rough to his own ears.

"Not at all," the boy purred, moving closer.

Greg gritted his teeth as Mark passed the boy a few notes and looked away.

The boy slowly mounted his lap and started to sway, chest sparkling and damp with sweat. He rolled his hips and Greg could feel his prick growing harder.

"I'm not. Gay, that is. I'm not," Greg protested, placing his hands on the boy's hips to push him away and not being able to do so.

"I don't care," the boy said. "Does this feel good?"

"What kind of question is that?" Greg spit. "You bloody well know it does!"

The boy fell silent and Greg closed his eyes, fingers not quite as tight on the slowly moving hips. He kept his eyes clenched closed as the boy leaned over him and ground down roughly before kissing his neck. 'Christ', he thought, 'they don't usually kiss, do they?'

The music changed and the boy started to pick up speed, hips rocking back and forth and breath coming in hot puffs against Greg's neck. Greg gripped his hips a bit tighter as he smelled the boy's heavenly neck, eyes fluttering at the thick vanilla, and knew he was lost. He tried to tell himself that it was because the little shit was grinding on him, tried to tell him it wasn't that under that vanilla was musk and earth and that under those metallic pants lay a plump little cock. He tried to tell himself that but it was a bit muddled when he came in his own pants in public.

"Get up," he said, pushing the boy away.

He didn't make eye contact with anyone as he left the building.

_____

 

Sherlock was sure he'd never see the cop again. He'd been warned about men who were upset at their own sexuality and tended to take it out on the dancers. The man hadn't actually done that, though, had he? He hadn't done anything, really.

That was why he was surprised when he saw the man at the corner store two nights later. He was buying some crisps and beer and Sherlock was just coming off his last shift. When their eyes caught Sherlock didn't know what he was expecting. It wasn't to be ignored.

That was what happened, though. The man paid for his things and watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye as he left. Sherlock really shouldn't have followed after him then, which was probably why he went bounding out the door.

"Hey," he said as he made it to the alley behind the store.

"What?" Greg asked.

"Don't you remember me?" Sherlock asked. "Two nights ago. Across the street."

"I'm busy," Greg said. "And aren't you a little young to be selling yourself out to grown men?"

"I'm eighteen, and I'm not selling anything but a dance." Sherlock replied.

"You're lying," Greg shot back, "and you followed me into an alley."

"I'm seventeen but I'm more mature than you. Should I be worried that you're the type we're sending out to defend our streets, officer?" Sherlock nearly growled.

"How did you know, no, don't answer that. Just leave me alone, yeah?" Greg said, still walking and just then realising they'd made it a whole block and Sherlock was beginning to shiver in his poor excuse for a coat.

"You want to take me home," Sherlock replied.

"No, I don't," Greg lied, finally coming to a stop outside a shitty set of flats. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

"Not really," Sherlock admitted, teeth starting to chatter.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Greg said, head hanging. "If I let you come up will you keep your hands to yourself?"

Sherlock nodded eagerly and followed Greg up to a dark flat. It was small and depressing but it was warm and Sherlock slipped into the room as soon as Greg had it unlocked. Greg shook his head as the boy turned on one of his lights and started to go through his bookcase.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, telling himself he was simply doing his best to get a child out of this line of work, telling himself he'd bring in the bugger that hired him.

"Not really," Sherlock lied.

"Too bad," Greg said, pulling out spray oil and a fry pan. "I'm making food and you're going to eat."

"Are all policemen so bossy?" Sherlock shot back petulantly.

"I'm not a policeman...yet," Greg said as he rummaged through the small fridge.

"Oh, still in school. There's always something. How long before you get your badge?" Sherlock asked.

Greg sighed and looked him up and down once before reaching for the radio and turning it on. Sherlock grinned at him and then went to lay down on the sofa with a grunt. Greg turned away from him and started in on a fry-up. 

"Why did you tell me you weren't gay?" Sherlock asked as Greg chopped up some ham.

"Because I'm not," Greg replied. 

"If you're not gay then why did you come in your pants while I rode you?" Sherlock quipped.

"Doesn't that mouth of yours ever get you into trouble?" Greg spit weakly.

"You want me to suck your dick," Sherlock purred, arching his back.

Greg breathed deeply and ignored him.

"No...you want to suck my dick. That's why you're angry. Because you're not only gay but you like it up the arse. I have a pretty cock," Sherlock bantered on.

Greg continued to cook and then plated what he'd made and brought them both to the small coffee table in front of the sofa. Sherlock sat up and took the fork offered and Greg sat next to him.

"I think-" Sherlock began.

"Shut up and eat your food," Greg said.

Surprisingly, Sherlock did.


End file.
